


wait for fate to shine (on the home i seek to find)

by angelsdemonsducks



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Magic, Angst with a Happy Ending, Falling In Love, Flower Symbolism, M/M, implied future anamoceit, janus: hello, mild body horror, or whatever their ship name is, virgil: failed step one, virgil: okay so i gotta get a god to help me, virgil: step one is to play it cool and not fall in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:07:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28174401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelsdemonsducks/pseuds/angelsdemonsducks
Summary: “And just what do you need me to help you with?” the god drawls, and it is clear that what he truly means is something along the lines of,And why should I bother to help someone like you?But Virgil needs the help of a god. So he yanks up the sleeve of his shirt and holds out his wrist for the god’s inspection, baring the flowers and vines that curl out of his skin.“I need you to take them away,” he says.In an effort to save his own life, Virgil makes a deal with a god.The problem with this is not the fact that the task the god sets him is impossible. The problem with this is not the fact that with each day that passes, his village inches closer to killing him because of his magic.No, the problem is that he's falling in love. And he has no idea what to do with that.
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders/Deceit | Janus Sanders, Deceit | Janus Sanders/Morality | Patton Sanders
Comments: 20
Kudos: 166





	wait for fate to shine (on the home i seek to find)

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings for referenced past child abuse, blood and injury, non-graphic violence, and mentions of death.
> 
> Title is from 'Patience' by Hollow Coves.

A god lives under the sycamore tree.

It is a small god, or so the stories say, a god of quiet breezes and clouds that pass across the sunrise and the way the light catches a mother’s eyes early in the morning when the sky is pink and she is staring at her infant child. But even a small god will do, Virgil thinks, for his purposes, so he climbs the steep hill up to the sycamore tree and waits for the dawn to chase the stars away.

The god arrives whisper-quiet, and Virgil only realizes he is there because he is looking for his coming. The god is dressed in black and shimmering gold, a cape swirling around his ankles and vanishing into shadow. One half of the god’s face is covered in scales— snake scales, he thinks, though it is impossible to be sure— but he knows better than to ask about them. His parents didn’t leave him much, but what they did teach him, he takes care to remember.

Lesson one: never offend a god, even a small god, because even the smallest of gods can work ills in the world.

This was usually accompanied by a glare, an indication of exactly what ill they meant.

So he does not ask about the scales, and he does not demand that the god acknowledge his presence; instead, he waits, head bowed and heart thumping up a thunderstorm, lightning crackling in the dryness of his mouth.

“What is it that you want, then?” the god finally asks. He sounds tired. Virgil didn’t know that gods could tire, but he won’t ask about this either. It’s not his business, not his place.

“I need your help,” he says, his voice guttural and rough from days without speaking. “Please,” he remembers to add, and when the god turns to regard him, he wishes he could shrivel up and die on the spot. Coming here, to the sycamore tree, was a last, desperate resort, but now he wonders if the attempt was worth making at all.

This is only a small god, after all. He may not be able to help, even if, somehow, Virgil can persuade him to want to.

“And just what do you need me to help you with?” the god drawls, and it is clear that what he truly means is something along the lines of, _And why should I bother to help someone like you?_

But Virgil needs the help of a god. Even a small one. So he yanks up the sleeve of his shirt and holds out his wrist for the god’s inspection, baring the flowers and vines that curl out of his skin.

They don’t hurt. Not these. They never do, not until his fears overwhelm him and the flowers grow thorns, sharp and black, drawing blood even as they’re supposed to protect him.

“I need you to take them away,” he says. It is a beg, a plea, but that doesn’t matter. If he ever had pride, he lost it a long time ago. Now, there is only the fear, pressing into him from all sides, from every shadow and even from the light. Light brings exposure, after all, means a lack of places to hide.

The god leans forward, arching a brow. He peers up at Virgil’s face, and Virgil glances away, uncomfortably aware of the god’s long lashes, the stark difference between his eyes. One is brown, the other, gold. One could be mistaken for human; the other could not.

“A god bestowed this upon you,” the god says. “What reason have I to reverse it?”

“They’re going to kill me,” Virgil blurts out, and the god stills. “My village. I’ve kept it secret for so long, but I think they figured it out, and if they have, they’re going to kill me.”

That is the fate of witches, and those who are deemed as such. Perhaps they have not yet made the final determination, but once they do, Virgil knows very well that his protestations will fall upon deaf ears. They’ll put him on the pyre at noon, and his vines will burn just as easily as the rest of him. His only chance is to prove that he is normal, that he is not what they think he is.

“They say people are less superstitious in the city, but if they catch me trying to run, they’ll kill me then, too.” He pauses for breath. Vines curl more securely around his wrists, threatening to prick him. The god says nothing. “Please, I didn’t ask for this. It wasn’t something I wanted. I need you to take it from me.”

The god looks at him for a long time.

“Humans are stupid,” he eventually says. “Stupid and cruel. You say this was given to you without your consent?”

Virgil blinks, surprised by the question. “I was a baby,” he answers. “I don’t think babies can consent to anything.”

The god hums, and then walks away. Only a few paces, just far enough that Virgil no longer feels his presence humming in his blood, sweet and intoxicating. The god turns to look out at the sunrise, and Virgil continues to watch the god as he stands there, arms folded behind his back. The sunlight hits his scales, and they seem almost to glow, lending him an otherworldly aura. Not, Virgil thinks, that he needed any help with that.

“That makes it difficult,” the god says. “In terms of magic, it is hard to consent to give away something that you did not consent to receive in the first place.”

A yawning chasm opens beneath his feet. He is held up by a shrinking precipice. Below, there is despair.

“You can’t help?” he asks, and is unashamed by the fear that threads his tone.

“That’s not what I said,” the god replies.

“So you can help?”

“I didn’t say that, either.”

The god turns to face him fully, his lips twisted in half a smirk, and for a too-long moment, Virgil goes weak at the knees, feels a flush rising on the back of his neck, feels flowers blooming, pushing their way out of his sleeves.

He chances a glance down. Yellow iris.

“There is only so much I can do,” the god says. “We are not meant to meddle in the blessings that others bestow. But if you took it upon yourself to, say, make a deal with me for the power’s removal?” The god takes a step forward, and it is all that Virgil can do not to take a step back. Behind him, the sycamore tree looms. “If you were to hold up your end of the bargain, it would enable me to act upon one of your wishes in return.”

“I don’t have anything to offer you,” Virgil says, for what could he possibly do that would appease a god?

The god regards him. “Don’t you?” he says. “Very well. Here, then, is your task.” He steps forward, gesturing to the sycamore tree. “My powers are many, but to understand the language of growing things is beyond my capabilities. It may not be beyond yours.” His left eye glitters. “Learn to speak the language of this tree, and convey to me what it says. Do this, and I will grant your desire.”

“I have to talk,” he says, “to the tree?”

The god smiles. It is not a happy smile. Virgil isn’t sure what it is, but happiness doesn’t factor into it.

“You cannot possibly tell me that your flowers have never whispered to you,” the god says. “That you do not feel them as a part of yourself.”

Virgil opens his mouth to argue, and finds that he can’t. The god speaks the truth, about the latter part, at least. The plants grow from his skin, curl in his veins; they are part of him, little though he wants them. He has never tried speaking to them, but perhaps that is just because he doesn’t often try speaking to himself.

“Learn to speak to the tree,” the god says again, as though he considers the matter final. Virgil nods, wordlessly, and steps up to the sycamore tree, laying a hand on its bark.

He doesn’t know what to do. Listening seems like a start, so he bows his head and strains his ears. There is nothing but the wind rustling the leaves, and if that is a language, it is not one that he yet understands.

“Am I on a time limit?” he asks, and the god, to his surprise, laughs, short but genuine.

“None but that which you impose upon yourself,” he replies. “I am patient. It’s _not_ as if I have nothing but time.”

“So, it’s alright if I leave and come back?” Virgil checks.

The god nods. “You may return as many times as you wish,” he says. “I _do_ look forward to your visits.”

And then, in the moment when the sun completely crests the horizon, the god disappears. Virgil is left alone, blinking stupidly under the boughs of the sycamore tree. He has no idea whether the god was being truthful or not.

So he leaves, the sycamore tree waving him down the hill.

And he comes back. Many times. As often as he dares, as often as he can sneak out of the village proper and make the mile-long trek to the hill and the tree and the patient small god.

Sometimes the god is there. More often, he is not, and Virgil is alone. He doesn’t know which he prefers. The god is intimidating, confusing, sharp-tongued and condescending. But he is company. When Virgil is left by himself, the world seems so much wider and so much lonelier, his task all but impossible. Sometimes, he feels as though he is on the edge of a breakthrough, as though he can make out the shape of the language of the tree, as if one more moment will unlock its secrets. And then, the moment passes, and there is nothing but the breeze in the branches, the ants crawling across its roots.

“What if I can’t do it?” he asks. It is night. He couldn’t slip away during the day. It is not explicitly forbidden to come to the god’s hill, but he knows very well that none of the villagers would appreciate _him_ doing so.

He is surprised that the god is here. The god usually comes at sunrise or sunset, the transitions between night and day.

“How do you mean?” the god asks. He is lying in the grass, tossing an apple in the air and catching it, over and over again. His posture is lazy, but his motions are sharp; the apple never seems in danger of hitting the ground.

“I mean, what if I can’t do it?” he repeats. He runs a hand down the tree’s trunk. “What happens then?”

“I’d imagine that would be up to you.” The apple spins in the air, a dull brown in the darkness. A quiet thud sounds each time it impacts the god’s palm. “Unless you’re asking whether I will do anything to you. I won’t, if that is the case. I have given you nothing as of yet, and as such, you do not owe me a thing. You could give up now, if you chose, and I would not raise a hand against you.” He pauses in his apple throwing, inclining his head in Virgil’s direction. “Are you giving up?”

Virgil sighs. “No.”

The god makes a noise, a small, “mm,” but does not otherwise reply. Virgil watches him for a long moment, a god reclining on the ground and throwing an apple like a bored child might. He looks back to the tree, and then to the god, and then walks to sit by the god’s side. Not too close— but not too far, either.

“They hate magic,” he murmurs. “Why do they leave you alone? The villagers, I mean. From my village.”

The god tilts his head. From this angle, Virgil can see the sharpness of his jawline, of his cheekbones, can make out individual scales on his face. They are not all the same color, as Virgil presumed, but rather various shades of green and brown and gold, all shimmering and sliding into one another.

_Beautiful,_ Virgil thinks, and then locks that thought away where it can’t do any damage. He feels flowers sprout along his arms; he doesn’t need to look to know what they are.

“I won’t pretend to understand how the minds of men work,” the god says. “They might be afraid. Attacking a god is different from burning one of their own in the central square.”

Virgil flinches. The god’s gaze is a heavy weight upon him.

“They know you’re here,” he says. “I heard a few of them talking, once. They said that because you were a small god, they didn’t need to bother with you.”

The god laughs, then, long and loud, and Virgil finds himself wanting to capture the sound, to keep it in his memory forever; it is rich and sonorous and he has never used the word _enchanting_ to describe someone, but he thinks it might just fit here.

“I’d imagine that’s what they’d like to tell themselves,” the god says, still amused. “No man likes to admit that he’s a coward. Alas, they are mistaken.”

The god sits up, then, staring Virgil fully in the face. His eyes spark with humor and something else, something older, something wilder, something that has seen oceans become deserts and mountains become plains and all of it go to the dust from whence it first came. Virgil shudders, and not entirely in fear.

“Even a small god could destroy them all,” the god says. “And I am not a small god.”

Virgil sucks in a breath between his teeth.

The stories all say that the god that lives under the sycamore tree on the hill is a small god, a quiet god, a god of whispering grass and moonlight through the clouds and the chirping of birds as the sun shows her face on the horizon. But stories are stories, and stories can be true and stories can be untrue, and Virgil knows this god, now, knows the promises in his voice and the threat in his every movement.

How did he ever think that this was a small god?

Vines curl around his neck. There are thorns there, digging into his skin but not yet piercing it. He tries to keep his breaths even, but each comes out thick and ragged.

The god reaches out. Passes his thumb across Virgil’s cheek. Where he touches, it feels as though lightning crackles beneath his skin. The thorns loosen. His breaths are still ragged, but for a different reason.

He wonders if the god can see it.

“I have seen empires rise and fall,” the god says, speaking softly, intimately. “I have toppled kings with a well-placed word and thrown great cities into the sea with a sentence. There is nothing that your village could do to me that I have not survived.”

Virgil’s throat is dry, his mind blank.

“Survival isn’t the same as living,” he says, though he doesn’t know why.

The god freezes. Something like pain passes across his face, casting a shadow over his eyes, and Virgil realizes, then, that the god has suffered before. That the god might be suffering now, for reasons beyond what Virgil has been allowed to know.

“No,” the god says, just as soft. “No, I suppose it is not. You would know, wouldn’t you?”

And once again, the god is gone, vanished into the wind. Virgil brings a hand up to touch his cheek, to touch where the god touched, as if to preserve the sensation. The stars twinkle overhead. He tried to count them, once, as a child, and found the task impossible. There were too many, the sky too vast for one little boy to take its full measure.

His sleeve has slipped down his arm. There are delicate white gardenias wrapped around his wrists, accusing in their innocence.

Something changes after that. The god watches him more, speaks to him more. Virgil gains the courage to speak back, and the god seems to like that, seems to like his quips and his snark, the language he can never use around the people from his village, lest they think he is trying to start a fight, to attack. His life hangs on the edge of a wire; one misstep and it is forfeit.

The sycamore tree remains incomprehensible. If it speaks words, they slip from his grasp, unattainable, untranslatable.

His hope is dying. There are always thorns around his arms, these days.

“Why do you fear it?” the god asks, one day. Virgil jerks, coming out of his focus to find that the god is very, very close.

“What do you mean?” he asks, and the god rolls his eyes.

“Don’t play coy, darling. It doesn’t suit you,” he says. That is another thing that has started recently: the pet names. They make him blush every time, and the god seems to delight in the reaction. “Your blessing. Your curse. Your magic. Whatever you would like to call it. Why do you fear it?”

“Because they’re going to kill me over it,” he says. Haven’t they been through this already? “It could happen any day now. They’re just looking for an excuse.”

The god tilts his head. “That’s part of it,” he agrees, “but you’re lying to me. A lie of omission. You fear them, but you fear the magic itself, for your own sake. Why?”

He stiffens. The thorns cut deeper. He remembers that day, remembers the way his mother screamed, the way his father shouted, the way the iron shackles clattered to the floor before they could touch him, before they could seal his magic away, before they could cast him into the lake to drown and be rid of him, their problem child, their burden.

He remembers the blood. The village called it an animal attack, a terrible tragedy. He never told them otherwise. To do so would have been to surrender his own life too. These days, though, he thinks they are beginning to suspect. Or perhaps they always suspected, but only now are they sure. Only now are they ready to act.

“It can hurt people,” he whispers. “It can kill people.”

“It can defend you,” the god says. “It can protect you. The magic is yours, whether you asked for it or not. It is yours to use, yours to command.”

“Until you take it from me,” Virgil finishes. There is a beat, and then the god draws back. He looks disappointed.

“Yes,” he says, “if that is what you want. And if you succeed.”

“It is what I want,” Virgil whispers, though he is no longer sure of what he wants at all.

Later that night, he sits alone in the house that was once home to three, before his parents decided that caring for a god-blessed child was more than they could afford. A single lantern flickers on the table, casting dancing shadows on his hands as he splays them out in front of him. He flexes them, watching the tendons move beneath his skin.

Humans, he thinks, are fragile things.

_What do you want, Virgil?_

Usually, the flowers come unbidden, rising bloodless from him as if his skin is soil. But he can summon them if he tries, if he allows himself to, and here, safe in the dark of night, he does so. He relaxes his self-set restrictions, the fears that drive him to keep his power as hidden as he possibly can, and something stirs inside of him, something deep and almost primal. He is afraid of it. But perhaps tonight, he does not have to be.

He coaxes the flowers forth, acting on instinct and half-baked desire, and daisies sprout and weave together until there is a crown sitting on the table before him, white and yellow and green. It looks, he has to admit, quite nice.

He glances to the window. There is nothing there but his own reflection in the glass, no one looming in the night to accuse him of evil. No consequences for this action. Just this once.

He makes another crown.

The next day, he marches up the hill with both in hand. The god is waiting there, and he goes to say something, but Virgil doesn’t give him the chance. In one swift motion, he plucks the hat from the god’s head, replacing it with one of the crowns, setting it gently just above his ears. The god gapes at him, jaw working silently. His mouth is open, just slightly. Virgil meets his eyes, placing the second crown in his own hair, and then presses the hat back into the god’s hands. The god takes it, automatically, seemingly stunned.

Virgil walks to the tree before his own embarrassment can become apparent. He stands by it, rests his hand on it, tries and fails once again to understand.

When he looks over his shoulder, the god is still staring at him. He is blushing. Virgil has to look away.

He knows what he wants better than he would like to admit. But it’s something he can’t have. He should have known better than to do this.

“Why did you do that?” the god finally asks, and Virgil forces himself to shrug.

“I thought it would look nice,” he says.

It is true. And he is right. The god stands there, a crown of daisies in his hair, and somehow, it suits him more than all the golden crowns of kings. He looks like a wonder, like a vision, and Virgil… wants.

“And does it?” the god asks. It should be a challenge, but instead, it is a breathless whisper. Fragile, a leaf held aloft by the wind. His eyes shine with something that Virgil does not dare name.

“It does,” he admits, and the god closes his eyes, lets out a shuddering breath.

And turns away.

Virgil turns away too, back to the tree, though he is scarcely aware of its foliage. The presence of the god burns behind him. He wonders if the god is aware of him in the same way.

From then on, it is a dance. They circle each other, neither stepping closer, neither breaking their pattern. Virgil learns to grow his flowers with purpose, his hesitance followed by a strange, foreign confidence, and he lays them in the god’s hair and tucks them in his clothes and once, behind his ear. The god calls him by appellations that are now charged with emotion, more than either of them are willing to share openly, and sometimes, his gloved hand lingers on Virgil’s arm, his neck, his face. Lingers, and then ultimately lets go, his fingers twitching and his gaze lowered, as if he’s been caught doing something forbidden.

They are both aware of what this is, between them. But neither of them moves on it, and Virgil cannot help but wonder why.

He knows why he does not. At heart, he is a coward, and no part of him believes that this is something he can be allowed. That he can capture a god’s attention and hold it.

Perhaps the god knows that, too. Knows of his cowardice. Knows that Virgil doesn’t deserve him, that he will never be good enough, will never be worthy. Or perhaps it is his mortality; the god will live forever and Virgil will not, and how could Virgil possibly measure up in the face of the millennia that this god has lived? To him, he must be a blink of an eye, the leaf that is green in summer but falls before autumn is past.

The god makes no sign, and he does not either, and their dance continues.

The sycamore tree becomes an excuse. An excuse to go to the hill. To see him. He is not trying nearly hard enough. The tree’s language is no more clear to him than it was on the first day, and he is no longer putting much effort toward changing that.

If the god knows it, he doesn’t say anything about it. Sometimes when Virgil visits, he doesn’t say anything at all, just looks at him, a gaze spinning with desire and sorrow and something that Virgil cannot hope to interpret.

But perhaps, this will be enough. His time on the hill, under the tree, has become something to look forward to, something to live toward. If he has one bright spot in his existence, isn’t that all he needs?

Perhaps.

The men come for him before dawn.

He is roused by their shouting. They do not approach silently, and that is what saves him. He looks out his window and sees them, many men, carrying torches and iron shackles and stakes. In the flickering torchlight, he can see the metal glimmer with a silver sheen, a sure sign that it is god-blessed, that the village sought the help of magic to get rid of him because he is magic. At any other time, he might laugh at the irony.

Now, all he can do is run.

They see him, of course, and give chase. But thorns spring from the ground in his wake, and they must spend time cutting through them with their iron before they can follow, and so he buys enough time to keep ahead. Thorns dig into his skin, flowers blooming out of his collar, petals streaming behind him as he runs. He catches a glimpse of them. Rhododendrons.

He reaches the top of the hill and the sycamore tree. The first signs of morning begin to shine in the east, though he doubts he will live to see the sun again. He is alone. He stands there, panting for breath, and then his knees buckle. He expects to hit the ground, but strong arms catch him, and he grips them on instinct, looking up.

“They have followed you here?” the god asks. Virgil doesn’t know why. Surely the god can see them, can hear them. They’ll arrive at the hill within a minute.

He opens his mouth, apologies about to spill from his tongue, for daring to bring such danger here, for presuming that the god will be willing or able to help at all, for so much as daring to exist, but the god puts a finger to his lips.

“They will regret it,” he says, and those four words promise destruction that Virgil has never known. Perhaps a better man would stop it, would plead for mercy for the men who want to kill him. These are men he knows, after all; he saw their faces as they chased him, saw the butcher, the innkeeper, the blacksmith, so many more, men that he has known since childhood. But Virgil allows the god to gently lower him to the ground, says nothing as the god steps in front of him, gazing out over the men who crowd the base of the hill.

They are calling out, angry shouts and demands for the god to hand him over. Virgil can only see the god’s back, the set of his shoulders, not his face, but he hears his laugh clearly, mocking, snide.

“And what makes you think that any of you have a right to demand things of me?” he asks. The men don’t take well to that, yelling and shaking the iron at him, but they make no other moves, not yet. A scared young man is one thing, but they don’t dare attack a god.

Except.

“Perhaps we ought to rid ourselves of this thing, too,” someone snarls. “It’s only a small god, and we’ve got it outnumbered.”

The words aren’t said particularly loudly, but they may as well be a match to oil for all their effect. They charge up the hill moments later, almost as if they are all of one mind, and Virgil watches, speechless, as his village attacks a god, at least thirty against one.

And the god is winning.

He is inhuman; there is no mistaking it, not now, not with the way he ducks and weaves between blows. Not that Virgil ever thought he was anything approaching human. But the god fights his village, and the men cannot so much as lay a finger on him, not if he does not want it. As Virgil stares, he dodges a blow so that one man hits another, and then his hand darts out, snatching one man close. He cannot see the god’s face, even still, but he can see the man’s, can see the way his expression falls into terror, the way he collapses to the ground, gibbering.

This god is a force of chaos. And yet, Virgil is not afraid of him. Perhaps he should be. No, he knows he should be, but he isn’t, and what does that say about him?

A man drops a torch. The grass is alight. Burning, flickering. Dancing.

And it is by this light that the men remember that he is still here. Remember their original quarry. One meets his eyes, his lips bared in a grimace, and Virgil does not have time to react before a staff of glittering, god-blessed iron is arcing through the air. The end, he notes dimly, has been sharpened. Vines rise out of the ground to stop it, his instinctual magic defending him where his mind and body are frozen, but the staff passes through them like a knife through butter, and Virgil is staring death in the face.

There is a split second in which his body unfreezes, realizes that if he does not move, he will die. He doesn’t even manage to get off the ground, doesn’t manage to rise to his feet, to meet his end standing.

And then, the god is there.

Backed by fire, scales glittering and twisting on his face. He meets Virgil’s eyes. And then, the iron pierces his heart.

A gasp. Soft and pained. There is no scream. To Virgil, there seems to be no sound at all as the god wavers, drops to his knees, slumps to the ground, his blood staining the grass in a slow trickle. The crackling flame is the first thing to filter back in; even the men are silent, paused, as if stunned by what they have just done.

Then, their gazes fall on Virgil.

“No,” he whispers, a wretched, broken thing. He can barely move, can barely think. The god shifts, moans; he is still alive, but that is enchanted iron in his chest, and even a god cannot survive that for long.

He throws out his hands, pulling on something deep inside himself. The same deep, primal thing he used to make daisy crowns, what feels like eons ago, but now expanded, multiplied, fueled by all of his rage and fear. Brambles sprout from the ground and from his arms alike, thick and dark and pointed, ensnaring everyone he can see. With their iron, they will escape, but it buys him a few precious seconds.

“Don’t you die,” he says, and takes the god by his cape and drags him away from the fire and toward the tree. This earns him a pained wheeze and nothing more; whether the god is truly conscious or not, he cannot tell. He gets them to the base of the tree, and then stops. Now what? The men are almost free, the god is dying, and the magic that he has only just given himself permission to use is useless in the face of people with weapons to neutralize it.

He chokes on a sob, and then on smoke, which rises thickly in the air around him. The fires are spreading up the hill, closer and closer. He waves a hand to try to clear it, and he hits bark.

He turns to the tree. It stands as tall and proud as ever.

He has nothing left to try.

He leans his head against the trunk, presses his palm against it. “Please,” he whispers. “Please, we’re going to die, they’re going to kill us, please help.”

The tree has a language all its own, though he cannot understand it. Perhaps it cannot understand him, either. The men work their way free, and the tree does nothing.

_It’s a plant,_ he thinks, his mind edged with hysteria. _Of course it’s not going to do anything._

But he has _nothing_ left to try.

He reaches out again, with all that he is. Vines spread out of his skin, lacing through his fingers, pressing against the bark.

“Please save him,” he says, and he says it with all of himself, with the him that is scared and the him that is brave, the him that loves and the him that shies away, with the him that is human and the him that is wild and god-touched and forever linked with that which is green and is growing.

And deep inside, he feels the tree respond.

He is given an image, a story in flashes. A small god who lived on the hill, no tree in sight. A small god who loved the birds and the wind and the quiet sunrise. A small god who loved another god. A small god who was injured, who was trapped, who was locked away from the world and could not be woken because he now spoke a language that no man or god could speak.

And the god who could not leave that god behind. A god who took up residence on the hill, hoping for a miracle.

Virgil receives this all in an instant, and he feels as though he understands everything and nothing all at the same time. He jerks away from the tree, turns, and there is someone looming over him, iron raised high. He throws his arm out, to ward off the blow, but it is hopeless, and the iron comes down, and Virgil’s eyes squeeze shut.

There is a noise like flesh hitting flesh. No blow comes.

Virgil opens his eyes.

There is someone standing there, holding the iron back. Brown skin and a head of dark, curly hair, and deep brown eyes that reflect the firelight. He is holding the villager’s arm, and he does not look angry, but he does not look pleased.

“You,” he says, and his voice should not carry as it does, because his voice has the timbre of a cheerful, babbling brook, but somehow, all the men stop where they are. “You are not welcome here. None of you are.”

He makes a gesture with his free hand, and the men are gone. There is a flock of birds where there was none before. These two things are connected, Virgil assumes.

The tree is gone, too. Like it was never there at all, except there is a circle of bare ground on the hill where no grass grows.

The new god stares out over the hill, frowning. Another wave of his hand, and suddenly, it is raining. The fires protest, but they dim and die as all fires eventually do. The new god sighs, as though in satisfaction, and only then seems to notice that Virgil is there at all. Only then seems to notice the god on the grass, the iron still sticking from his chest.

The new god’s face crumples.

“Janus,” he gasps out. Virgil blinks.

All this time, and this is the first time he’s heard the god’s name. Janus.

The new god falls to his knees, scrambling to Janus’ side. His hand hovers above the wound, then above his face, but he does not touch. He looks afraid. Virgil didn’t know that gods could look afraid.

“Janus,” the new god breathes, “I’m here, I’m here, you’re going to be alright, I promise, you’re going to be alright.” He continues on like this, hushed reassurances. Virgil doesn’t know whether he’s addressing Janus or himself.

Janus’ eyes crack open. And somehow, he finds it in himself to smile.

“Patton,” he murmurs, and Virgil suddenly feels like an intruder, as though he is witnessing something private, not meant for him. He also feels as though his heart is ripping itself apart; that one name contains a wealth of emotion, a history, a deep and intimate past that Virgil could never hope to compete with.

It is selfish of him, he knows, to be thinking of that when Janus is dying. But he has never claimed not to be selfish. It breaks something in him, to know that one way or another, Janus will never be his. Was never going to be his.

He didn’t realize he’d allowed himself to hope for it until now, when the hope has been taken.

The new god, Patton, laughs, a wet, desperate sound. Finally, his hand finds purchase, landing on Janus’ face, the left side, gently cupping the scales. Janus sighs, turning his face into the touch.

“Hi,” Patton whispers. The sound of the rain on the grass is soft, soothing. The soil below them gradually turns to mud. Virgil is soaked through, but he doesn’t care. Can’t care, not about that, not now. “You’re going to be alright.”

“Of course,” Janus says. His voice is softer than a breath of wind, barely audible above the sound of the raindrops on the ground. “It’s only a scratch.”

Patton closes his eyes. Breathes deeply. He is steadying himself; Virgil recognizes the tactic. Odd, to think he has something in common with a god who has spent an immeasurable length of time as a tree on a hill. He understands, now, why Janus lingered here, even though it seemed he had no cause to do so.

“Of course,” Patton agrees, and the break in the words makes it clear that he knows Janus is lying. Makes it clear that he believes Janus is going to die. Virgil feels disbelief welling up inside him, overshadowing the grief and terror that grip him second by second. Perhaps Patton is a small god, but a god he is; can he not do something, anything to stop this?

“Can’t you save him?” he asks. His voice is weak, but months ago, he never would have dared to ask the question at all. Never would have dared to question a god. For the first time, Patton looks at him, holds his gaze. His eyes are filled with tears, and looking into them is like looking into a gaping wound, like looking at the embodiment of despair in the face of the inevitable.

“I am the god of summer breezes and sunshine and the love that people hold for the world in their hearts,” Patton says. “If the iron weren’t enchanted, maybe I could. But the magic upon it is enough to… enough to injure Janus like this. It’s not in my power to heal the wound.” He speaks in a strange cadence, ebbing and flowing with an odd rhythm. It reminds Virgil of the sounds of the sycamore tree itself, of the leaves and the wind and the scrape of the bark.

“You’re the one who woke me,” Patton continues. “Thank you. Anything that is within my power to grant you, I will.”

And there it is: the solution to Virgil’s problems, far too late. He could ask this god to remove his powers from him, but what would be the point, when the men who would hurt him are gone? What would be the point, when he has finally learned to accept that part of himself, when its removal is no longer what he wants? What would be the point, when the thing that he truly wants is bleeding out on the grass, and Patton has just admitted that it is not within his power to save him?

“He took the injury for me,” he says, forcing the words out through lips that refuse to move. “This is my fault.”

“Worth it,” Janus interjects, the words a gasp. “I wanted you safe. Both of you.” He smiles again. His teeth are painted in blood. His own. “I’m glad I could have both of you, if only for a moment.”

Virgil stills.

“You’ll be alright,” Patton says again. It is clear he does not believe his own words. With his free hand, he takes one of Janus’ hands in his own, holds it up to his own cheek. The tears are spilling now.

It is a great and terrible thing, to see a god cry. But Virgil is barely paying attention, is stuck on _both of you_ , on the idea that Janus would want him in the same way that he wants Patton, in the same way that he loves a god who he has known for thousands of years. On the idea that Janus would dare to say such a thing, to give his feelings voice, in the instant before he dies and leaves Virgil alone forever.

An emotion stirs. The emotion is anger.

“You can’t die,” he snaps, and Janus looks to him with half-lidded eyes. “You can’t— I did what you wanted! I spoke to the tree! You— you _owe_ me, you can’t just—” The sob wrenches itself from his throat, loud and traitorous. The rainwater drips from his hair, lands on his hands, clenched into fists. The sky is clouded, but lightening. At last, the sun is rising.

“You’re right,” Janus says. The words take effort; his breathing is rasping. “You held up your end of the bargain.” He stretches his hand toward Virgil. As always, it is gloved. “I have not the strength, but the Old Magics govern our deal. By that power, I will complete the bargain and remove your power from you.”

Virgil stares at the hand.

Something settles in his mind. A realization. A breath of fresh air. The lighting of a candle.

Lavender sprouts from his skin.

“That wasn’t the deal. The deal was that you would grant my desire,” he says. “Those were the words you used.”

Janus furrows his brow. Patton startles, and looks to him.

_What do you want, Virgil?_

He reaches out and tugs the glove from Janus’ hand, ignoring his gasp. And he places his hand in his. His skin is cool to the touch, and now wet with rain. Virgil grasps him as tightly as he dares, and with a thought and a bit of will, vines curl from his wrist and encircle Janus’, binding them together, as bold of a claim as he dares make. He glances at Patton, wondering at his reaction, but Patton is still, his eyes wide.

“Then by the governance of the Old Magics,” he says, speaking words that he barely understands, relying on their weight alone, “my desire is that you live.”

For a moment, the rain is suspended in midair. The world itself shudders; Virgil can feel it, in his bones, a rush of magic, old and powerful, the kind that unmakes that which has been made and repairs that which is irreparable.

For a moment, the rain is suspended in midair, and Virgil is the only living being in existence.

And then, the sky is clear, the sun’s rays casting it in brilliant shades of pink and orange, and Janus lurches into a sitting position, gasping for air. One hand flies to his chest, and it is the hand that Virgil has bound, so Virgil feels it too: the lack of a wound, the strength and steadiness of his heartbeat. Janus’ mouth opens and closes, several times, and Virgil wonders if it is a thing to take pride in, that he has rendered the god speechless.

And then, Janus turns his head and kisses him.

His lips are cool and soft. Virgil forgets to breathe. He remembers to kiss him back. It seems a century before it ends; it seems a moment; it seems a lifetime. He is kissing a god. Is kissing Janus.

Janus is the first to pull away, though he doesn’t go far. Virgil can feel his breath against his skin.

“My desire,” he says, “is that you stay with me. If you’d like to. Stay with us.”

Chrysanthemums bloom out of his cheekbones, directly in his line of sight. It is too revealing, gives away far too much, but he is past the point of caring. He looks to Patton, sure that Patton could not possibly agree to this, not if they are to each other what Virgil believes, but Patton is smiling, tears still running down his face.

“I would very much like to get to know you,” he says softly, and something bright and warm bursts in Virgil’s chest. He glances back and forth between the two of them, and they both gaze steadily back; they mean this, then, mean that they want him, that he can stay with them, with the god that lived under the sycamore tree and the god that was the sycamore tree.

_What do you want, Virgil?_

He tightens his grip on Janus’ fingers. Extends his other hand toward Patton, who takes it with no hesitation.

He should be scared. He has never felt more at peace. Has never felt more at home.

“Yes,” he says, “please.”

To the east, the sun finally rises, casting direct light on the hill where once there was a sycamore tree. The sun finally, finally rises, and Virgil thinks that perhaps, he will get to see it thousands of times more. And he wants that very much.

**Author's Note:**

> Flower meanings can vary depending on the source, but here's what I was using:  
> Yellow iris: Passion  
> Gardenias: Secret love  
> Daisies: Purity, innocence, and loyal love  
> Rhododendrons: Danger  
> Lavender: Devotion  
> Chrysanthemums: Joy  
> And finally, the sycamore tree: Strength, protection, divinity, and eternity
> 
> I wrote this almost entirely on the notes app on my phone, which is a first for me, but I think it turned out alright. And I finished it in time for Virgil's birthday, too, so I'll count that as a win!
> 
> I'm @whenisitenoughtrees on tumblr if you ever want to come say hi!


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